The Iliad

swaying among the dancers singing goddess Artemis

with arrow of gold and cry that halloos the hunt.

And straightway up to her chamber Hermes climbed,

the Healer, in secret, lay in her arms in love

and the woman bore the god a radiant son, Eudorus—

lightning on his feet and a crack man of war.

But soon as the Lady of Labor’s birthing pangs

brought him to light and he saw the blaze of day,

Actor’s majestic son the powerful lord Echecles

led her home to his house with troves of bridal gifts

while old King Phylas reared the boy with kindness,

tending, embracing the young Eudorus like a son.

The third battalion was led by brave Pisander,

Maemalus’ son, who outfought them all with spears,

all the Myrmidons after Achilles’ friend Patroclus.

The fourth was led by the old horseman Phoenix,

Alcimedon led the fifth, Laerces’ gallant son.

But soon as Achilles mustered all battalions,

positioned in battle-order led by captains,

he imposed this stem command on all his troops:

“Myrmidons! Not one of you dare forget those threats

you hurled from the fast trim ships against the Trojans

all the while I raged, and I was the one you blamed,

down to the last fighter: ‘Brutal son of Peleus—

your mother nursed you on gall! Merciless, iron man—

confining your own men to the ships against their will!

So home we go in those ships and cut the seas again,

since now such deadly anger strikes our captain.’

Denouncing me—

my comrades, clustered together, always grumbling.

Well, here’s a tremendous work of battle, look,

blazing before your eyes

and just the sort you longed for all those days.

So each man tense with courage—fight the Trojans down!“

That was the cry that fired each soldier’s heart.

Hearing the king’s command the ranks pulled closer,

tight as a mason packs a good stone wall,

blocks on granite blocks for a storied house

that fights the ripping winds—crammed so close

the crested helmets, the war-shields bulging, jutting,

buckler-to-buckler, helm-to-helm, man-to-man massed tight

and the horsehair crests on glittering helmet horns brushed

as they tossed their heads, the battalions bulked so dense.

And out before them all, two men took battle-stations,

Patroclus and Automedon, seized with a single fury

to fight in the comrades’ vanguard, far in front.

But Achilles strode back to his shelter now

and opened the lid of the princely inlaid sea chest

that glistening-footed Thetis stowed in his ship to carry,

filled to the brim with war-shirts, windproof cloaks

and heavy fleecy rugs. And there it rested ...

his handsome, well-wrought cup. No other man

would drink the shining wine from its glowing depths,

nor would Achilles pour the wine to any other god,

none but Father Zeus. Lifting it from the chest

he purified it with sulphur crystals first

then rinsed it out with water running clear,

washed his hands and filled it bright with wine.

And then, taking a stand before his lodge, he prayed,

pouring the wine to earth and scanning the high skies

and the god who loves the lightning never missed a word:

“King Zeus—Pelasgian Zeus, lord of Dodona’s holy shrine,

dwelling far away, brooding over Dodona’s bitter winters!

Your prophets dwelling round you, Zeus, the Selli

sleeping along the ground with unwashed feet ...

If you honored me last time and heard my prayer

and rained destruction down on all Achaea’s ranks,

now, once more, I beg you, bring my prayer to pass!

I myself hold out on shore with the beached ships here

but I send my comrade forth to war with troops of Myrmidons—

Launch glory along with him, high lord of thunder, Zeus!

Fill his heart with courage—so even Hector learns

if Patroclus has the skill to fight his wars alone,

my friend-in-arms, or his hands can rage unvanquished

only when I go wading in and face the grind of battle.

But once he repels the roaring onslaught from the ships

let him come back to me and our fast fleet—unharmed—

with all my armor round him, all our comrades

fighting round my friend!”

So Achilles prayed

and Zeus in all his wisdom heard those prayers.

One prayer the Father granted, the other he denied:

Patroclus would drive the onslaught off the ships—

that much Zeus granted, true,

but denied him safe and sound return from battle.

Once Achilles had poured the wine and prayed to Zeus,

he returned to his shelter, stowed the cup in the chest

then took his stand outside, his spirit yearning still

to watch Achaeans and Trojans struggle to the death.

Myrmidons,

battalions ranged in armor with greathearted Patroclus,

moving out now, the fury bursting inside them,

suddenly charged the Trojans—

they swarmed forth like wasps from a roadside nest

when boys have made it their sport to set them seething,

day after day tormenting them round their wayside hive—

idiot boys! they make a menace for every man in sight.

Any innocent traveler passing them on that road

can stir them accidentally—up in arms in a flash,

all in a swarm come pouring, each one raging down

to fight for home and children—

Such frenzy seized their hearts,

Myrmidons pouring out of the ships, ceaseless shouts rising

and over them all Patroclus’ war cries rousing comrades:

“Myrmidons! Brothers-in-arms of Peleus’ son Achilles!

Fight like men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!

Now we must win high honor for Peleus’ royal son,

far the greatest fighter among the Argive fleet,

and we who fight beside him the bravest troops—

so even mighty Atrides can see how mad he was

to disgrace Achilles, the best of the Achaeans!”

He closed with a shout and fired each fighter’s heart

and down in a mass they launched against the Trojans,

ships around them echoing back their shattering cries.

The Trojans, soon as they saw Menoetius’ gallant son,

himself and his loyal driver flare in brazen gear—

all their courage quaked, their columns buckled,

thinking swift Achilles had tossed to the winds

his hard rage that held him back by the ships

and chosen friendship toward the Argives now.